Black Ajax (5 page)

Spicer shouts a sharp command, and Tom directs his blows at the Ghost's body. They fall on the breast, the stomach, the groin, the kidneys, and the flanks. The Ghost wails in agony, falling to his knees. He rises, and is struck down again, and yet again. He crawls to the limit of the stage, imploring Blenkinsop, whom he can no longer see,
to end his anguish. “Mass' Bob, Mass' Bob, make 'im stop! Cain't see, Mass' Bob! Ah's beat – mercy on me, Mass' Bob! Please, please, mass'!”

Tom, exhausted by his efforts, sinks to his knees and looks to Spicer. I note with interest the conduct of this English sailor. He frowns, and walks rapidly to Blenkinsop, plucking from his waist the blood-stained rag with which he sponged Tom's wounds. He presents it, but for Blenkinsop it has no meaning. He knows nothing of the pugilist's token of surrender. He calls instead to his drivers, who leap to the stage and lash the fallen Ghost with their whips, goading him to resume the contest. He tries to rise but cannot. He falls on his back, his head lolling over the edge of the stage, his blood coursing to the ground from a face that is a face no longer but a hideous crimson sponge.

Spicer casts down his cloth in anger, and nods to Tom to continue. Tom cannot rise. I see the great muscle a-flutter in his leg, and know that its use has deserted him for the moment. He pulls himself to the side of the Black Ghost, and gathers his strength for a last terrible blow directed at the upturned chin. Even through the din we hear the fearful crack as the spine is fractured at the neck, and as the Black Ghost's head hangs limp a deafening yell of delight rises from a thousand throats. I bid Ganymede bring the girl Mollybird to my house, and make my way to my carriage. Butchery, however detestable, I can view with a dispassionate eye, but slobbering expressions of gratitude from cousin Richard, before such a Gadarene assembly, are not to be borne.

Fact is, I don't much care to remember. 'Deed, suh, you'd be astonished jus' how good I can be at
dis
-rememberin', specially when some 'quisitive stranger comes pokin' his nose in my private affairs, wants to set it all down – for what? So you can lay an info'mation 'gainst me? Pouf! Not these days, mister, not in this town. La Senora Rossignol is re-spectable
an'
respected, as my good friend the Alcalde can tell you. An' I doubt he'd take kin'ly to any Paul Pry seekin' scandal … to squeeze money out o' prom'nent gennlemen, maybe? That ain't your game? Well, then, I reckon you mus' be one o' those de-generates that get all tickled up havin' a lady tell 'em the intimate de-tails of her past, from her own
ruby
lips. Brother, have I seen my fill o' that sort! What some men'll pay good dollars for … praise be. Not so, you say? Oh, my apologies. So, mister, jus' what
do
you want?

Tom
Molineaux
? Me'ciful heavens! An' what in cree-ation is he to you, may I ask? A subject of his-toric interest? My, my! Tom got called plenty in his time, but that's a noo one. An' why might you s'pose I know anythin' of his-toric interest 'bout him, or would tell you if I did? Ah-h … you been talkin' to Lucie de la Goddam Guise! Well, I trust you scrubbed real well with carbolic aft'wards. Pouf ! An' you want
my
side o' the story? Tom's story, you mean? Well, perhaps I don't choose to tell. Why should I?

Your pardon? You are prepared to make me a gen'rous onner … say it again, if you please … Honorarium? Suh, if that is some noo kind of European perversion, I'd be 'bliged if you'd tell me what it means, in simple American …
Payment
? For tellin' you 'bout Tom Molineaux? Now, that I cannot believe! See here, my friend, if you have been overhearin' loose talk an' have called 'pon me for some pu'pose you are too bashful to confide straight out … well, I 'ppreciate
the flatterin' attention, but madam is not inclined these days, an' if I was, believe me, you couldn't afford it.

No, suh. I am not in need of capital, as you can see. Yonder coffee service is English sterlin' silver, my gown is pure China silk, f'm Paris, France – well, I thank you for the charmin' compliment – these fine furnishin's an' pictures an' all is bought an' paid for, as is the house; my maid, cook, an' footman ain't owed one red cent in wages, an' there is a drivin' carriage,
with
canopy, an' two horses in my stable, which you are kin'ly welcome to view – on your way out. Unless you choose to state your
real
business. Jus' so we und'stand one another.

My stars! You were
not
bammin' jus' now? You truly want to know 'bout that Tom? Well, that does beat all! Whatever for? I'd not ha' thought he was o' that much account. No one ever cared for him, hardly …'cept me, an' I knew no better. He made a name in
England
? Now, you do s'prise me. Oh, prize-fightin' … uh-huh, I guess he was good at that, if little besides. Well, it makes no neverminds what he did in England. He surely did hurt enough in America, him an' that … No, I b'lieve I do not care to remember.

My recollections are of the first impo'tance to you? Well, now, I can't think why they should be … oh, fo'give me if I smile, only I wonder do you know 'zackly what you are askin'? My recollections? La-la! My good suh, they are not what you are 'ccustomed to read in the ladies' journals. You 'ppreciate that, you say? Well, I 'ppreciate your candour,
I
mus' say! No, do not apologise. Like I said, we und'stand each other.

Well, now … I may not
care
to remember – but I do. 'Tis not the kind of thing a woman forgets, try how she may. Still, 'twill do no harm to tell now, I guess. I got over that mis'ry a long time ago, even if it did break my heart in pieces at the time … I had a heart in those days. So long ago … at Amplefo'th … when I was young in the sunshine … Oh, damn him! An' damn that worm de la Guise! You wouldn't b'lieve I could still feel the pain! Well, I don't –'til some 'quisitive body plagues me to think on it!

I beg your pardon, suh. I fo'get myself. Quite in'scusable, what must you think? You have called 'pon me to make an inquiry, in genteel style, an' my outbu'st was most unbecomin'. Would you have
the kindness to pour me a glass of sherry f'm the cellarette yonder – an' kindly help yourself to refreshment. There is French brandy, an' aquavit', an' such. Jus' the smallest trifle … I thank you. Now, let me collect my thoughts.

H'm, my recollections. Well, you shall have 'em plain, an' if they offend your delicate feelin's … why, you shouldn't ha' come.

First thing, Tom Molineaux was a born fool. Strong in the arm, weak in the head, denser'n Mississippi mud. Even when I was little, I could see he had no mo' sense'n an ox. He was willin' an' kin'ly enough, an' I guess I took to him 'cos he took to me. Used to follow me 'round like a great hound puppy, f'm as early as I can remember. He was older'n me, but we used to play together, an' I had to show him how, at our games an' ev'ythin'. The older slave-childer used to make game of him, 'til he got bigger – an' then the boys took no more liberties with him, you bet, for he was prodigious strong an' could whip 'em three, four at a time. Yes, suh, he was one big likely nigger buck, an' ripe as a stud bull! Oh, my, I trust you will pardon the 'spression. Recollectin', I fall back into the common way o' speech. But that is what he was.

'Twas natural the gals all set their caps at him, an' he was fool enough to pay 'em heed, an' had his way with all o' them, but it was me he cared for always. “You my own true love, li'l Mollybird,” he used to say. “True love!”, I declare! Where he learned such words, I cannot 'magine. But he meant it, so far's he had sense to mean anythin', an' I b'lieved him.

One reason why he admired me to worship was I looked so different from the other wenches. They were common nigras, but I was what they called high yaller – yellow, you know, on 'ccount o' my white blood, an' fine-boned an' dainty. Ah, I was the sweetest, neatest little gold fairy you ever did see – well, I am not 'zackly plain in my prime, would you say, so you can imagine. The master's daddy, old Molineaux, used to call me Princess, never Mollybird, which is a real low plantation-wench name, if you like. Not my style at all, which is why I am Marguerite Rossignol, in case you wonderin'. Molly Nightingale, in French – Molly Bird.

So the older an' prettier I grew, the more Tom mooned after me, an' I dare say I used him somethin' shameful, as gals will. He was so
in awe of me, an' the white people made me such a pet, he never dreamed to treat me like the nigra wenches. Once, when I's 'bout twelve, an' he was maybe sixteen, I teased him on to kiss me, an' like the born fool he was, he bragged 'bout it, and when old Molineaux heard, he was in such a takin' he had Tom triced up an' lashed 'til he couldn't walk. They told me I was never to even talk to him after, an' kept me in the big house in a chamber of my own, with a bed an' coverlet. Oh, I thought 'twas heaven! That was how precious I was.

Can you 'magine, it devoted Tom to me more than ever? An' I cannot think why, now, but I do believe it was bein' kept away f'm him that caused me to fall in love with him. I would see him starin' at my window nights, an' lookin' so melancholy, an' ev'yone knew he hadn't made so much as a whimper when they whipped him. I yearned for him then, as only a young girl can, ugly as sin tho' he was. Well, the other bucks were no better, or near so strong an' fine-bodied as Tom, an' what other men had I seen? It seems foolish now, but for three years I was in love with Tom Molineaux.

You think that hard to b'lieve? You see me here, the elegant lady of colour in her stylish salon, with her Paris gown an' fine complexion an' delicate airs, an' conversin' in that husky way the gennlemen so adore, ole-plantation-an'-la-m'dear – you s'pose I was this smart an' wo'ldly when I was fifteen? Pouf! I had no mo' sense'n a chicken. I was a simple little wench, an' Tom Molineaux was big an' strong an' kin'ly and gentle to me as if I was a ewe lamb. An' I loved him, strange an' all as it seems now. I have had some 'sperience o' the world since, and of men, an' I am no longer simple, but I am here to tell you that when a strong, brave man is fit to be tied for love of you, he is powerful hard to resist … when you are fifteen.

Would you be so kind as to make a long arm for that brandy on the cellarette? I have a fancy to somethin' mo' strengthenin' than sherry … deeply 'bliged.

Where was I? Ah, yes, it was when old Molineaux died that Master Richard made Tom a “fightin' nigra” an' began to match him 'gainst the bucks f'm other estates. I know nothin' of such things, but all the talk was that Tom was the meanest fellow with his fists in the whole Dominion, an' I was mighty proud of him, tho' I never saw him fight
until … that night in Awlins. I didn't know what nigger-fightin'
was
, hardly, but I was glad for Tom, an' Master Richard makin' much of him, pettin' him an' givin' him fancy clothes an' sayin' he would be the mos' famous slave in the Southland.

Mos' nigras would ha' put on airs 'bove theirselves to be so tret by their masters, but not Tom. Truth to tell, he didn't have the gumption to get above hisself; he was jus' quiet, dull Tom as ever, an' I was the only thing could bring a light to his eye an' a smile to that big, ugly nigra face. Young Master Richard saw how 'twas with us, and gave Tom the freedom o' my company – an'
only
my company. “You want to pleasure yo'self, they's wenches a-plenty in the cabins,” says Master Richard. “Mollybird she pure, an' stay that way. Maybe one o' these days, I let you have her, when yo' champeen nigra fighter of America. How you like that, Mollybird? You like this big
go-alonger
for yo' man?”

He would laugh as he said it, and cuff Tom's woolly head, and Tom would grin an' shuffle an' look on me like I was the Queen o' Sheba. I was grown enough to toss my head and look sidelong an' say nothin', like the white misses on their verandas, tho' I hardly knew what Master Richard meant 'bout Tom havin' me, or bein' my man. Oh, I knew what he an' the other bucks did with the wenches in the cabins, but I was the li'l Princess an' far above the doin's of the common slaves. My love fo' Tom was different; I yearned to have him with me, 'cos he was big an' brave an' would never let harm come to me, and if you'd asked me what I meant by lovin' him, I couldn't ha' said more'n that. I was innocent an' foolish an' fifteen, an' thought in fairytales. Nowadays I lay no claim to innocence or gi'lish folly, am three times as old, an' the only fairytales I read come in yellow covers … but I still can explain no better what I felt for Tom, then. Maybe it was true love, like he said.

Heigh-ho … yes, I think jus' a wee touch more brandy would be acceptable, when I come to think back on that night in Awlins. Master Richard had brought this little sailor-man to Amplefo'th, to brisk Tom up for 'nother fight, 'gainst a nigra called the Black Ghost. Ev'yone allowed it would be Tom's sternest trial yet, an' the sailor-man goaded him on to run an' leap over rails an' split kindlin', with Master Richard fussin' an' runnin' after them, an' the sailor-man cryin': “It's his legs,
guv'nor! Got to make them legs like mainmasts!” I remember he said that, over an' over, in that cracky English voice. I didn't know what a mainmast was, or what jumpin' an' splittin' wood had to do with prize-fightin'. I jus' found it all mighty amusin', but Tom didn't care for it. The sailor-man made him a big sack o' corn-husks an' bark, an' Tom had to whale at it with his fists, an' he liked that well. Master Richard had me down to the yard to watch him beat the sack, an' when Tom flagged, Master would point to me an' whisper in his ear, an' Tom would lay into the sack till it bu'st wide open. Lord, what a lovin' fool he was! An' I would clap an' cheer him on, an' feel the butterflies inside me as I looked on those splendid limbs a-gleam in the sunlight.

Yes, suh, indeed. You are f'miliar, I don' doubt, with those Greek an' Roman statues which are thought to show the ab-solute p'fection of the male form? I have viewed them, too, as well as – you may set this down – a great many livin' examples also, an' I am here to tell you that Tom Molineaux's was the most beautiful human body I have ever seen. M'm-h'm! Oh, his features were homely, like I said – fact, I can't recall many uglier – but that frame o' his was fit to melt a gal's legs f'm under. Talk 'bout heroic! Bein' young an' simple at the time, I did not rec'nise the feelin' I was feelin' then, tho' I can put a name to it now … but I shan't. Jus' say that if I'd been Queen Cle-o-patra an' seen him up fo' auction, the other bidders would ha' gone home dis'pointed.

It was that time Master Richard hinted 'bout Tom an' me bein' wed. Maybe he meant it, I can't tell. Mos' folks would say the reason he an' old Molineaux had been at such pains to keep a beautiful high-yaller gal virgin, was so they could get a real fancy price fo' her when she bloomed, 'round sixteen–seventeen, but I don' know 'bout that. They looked down their V'ginia noses at nigra-traders, so I can't be sure what they intended by me. All I know is what Master Richard said, an' I was the happiest l'il chucklehead in the state.

An' then the snake came wrigglin' in. M'sieur Lucie d'Estrees de la Goddam Guise, with his silk coat an' gold-topped cane an' eye-glass, fingerin' his dandy moustache an' scented like a female. He was Master Richard's cousin, an' we stopped at his fine house out by Pontchartrain the day before Tom's fight in Awlins. I was called to be shown off
to him, an' had to hide my laughter, for I had ne'er seen such a picture of a popinjay, so bedecked an' ruffled an' languid fit to die. He looked old to me, so I guess he was forty, maybe, an' when he called me close to pet me I was still strugglin' not to laugh right out.

Then I saw his eyes, an' my laughter died inside me. They were sleepy and chill, an' as they looked me over, with that mean smile on his pretty little mouth, I fell a-tremble with fear, an' felt shamed and unclean somehow, to be so regarded. He stroked my cheek with his soft fingers all scented with rings on 'em, an' it was as though a slimy critter was leavin' its track on my skin. When he said, in that lispin' voice, how pretty I was, an' slipped a candy in my mouth, I near gagged it out, an' when he asked Master Richard what my price was, an' Master Richard said I wasn't for sale, I near swooned with relief. I could think of nothin' more horrible than to be owned by that mincin' exquisite with his gentle voice an' clammy touch and evil eyes. I didn't know why he was wicked, or why his gaze defiled me; I just knew he was vile in ways I couldn't understand.